Paris Thin
by SamisforSamurai
Summary: Alfred has a problem. He has a cycle of self-hate, a constant churning of eating too-much, not-enough, you-don't-know-how-hard-it-is-to-smile-when-I-feel -like-I'm-dying. But he never imagined that any other nation would have the same problem, least of all Francis. Despite the hypocrisy, Alfred knows he needs to help. (Kink Meme Fill)


Sometimes, Alfred really didn't want to get out of bed in the morning. Other times, he didn't want to leave the table, didn't want to stop eating away the problems that were eating away at him. Of course, that always led to him not wanting to leave the exercise machine because what if he gained weight, what if it was noticeable that he wasn't taking good care of himself, that he was 'letting himself go' and 'wasting his potential' and should just 'go eat more hamburgers, idiot, it's all you seem to be good for in these meetings'.

And as much as those insults played their part, it wasn't as bad as the constant hum of media advertising super-thin women and excessively muscular men, always showing idols who would still never be good enough to escape seething criticism about the slightest flaw. Worse, almost, was the pang of longing for the restaurants advertised on television, the want to go back to the olden days where he could work all day and eat his fill and not need to worry about his muscle-to-fat ratio, but only about the strength of his back and how much he could eat before his wallet was bled dry during economic depressions. Life was so simple back then.

Alfred stood in front of the mirror after his shower, pinching and prodding as always. Some days it was worse, and he'd stay there for over an hour, measuring and berating whether or not there was actually fat there. Some days he deemed himself fit enough to indulge and those, those were the worst, because they were the calm before the storm, and he knew he was setting himself up for failure but some days, some days he wanted nothing more than the comfort of a full stomach and a chance to rest.

Today was not one of those days, not any of them. As always, he spent a bit too long in front of the mirror after his shower and a bit too long pinching at his stomach to make sure that there wasn't more than an inch or so of fat on it. Because he knew, he _knew_, that if he had no fat on his stomach that he was starting to slip into old his old habits of crash dieting, and if he had more than that, he was starting to let his bingeing get the better of him. But today, it wasn't as bad as it could have been, even if he was leaning slightly towards the second option and decidedly not happy about it.

Alfred did not have the healthiest relationship with food, and he never claimed to.

Today, though, he simply ignored all of that and pulled on clean clothes. Because, _today_, he was going to a private meeting with France. Not bingeing, not resisting the urge to spend an hour or ten on an exercise machine, not watching movies where the lead characters are always so thin thin _thin_.

The meeting was going to be a lunch date.

And Alfred knew, without a doubt, that if he let his insecurities get the better of him this morning, he'd probably end up staying on his exercise machine until it was almost time to go and he barely had enough time to take a shower and, really, he didn't need to take two showers in one day. Wasn't everyone trying to tell him to be more conservative about water anyways?

So he simply buttoned up his pants, combed through his hair and got to work on some paperwork that would be overdue come tomorrow.

One o'clock rolled around, and with the lunch date scheduled for two, Alfred finished getting ready, re-doing his hair to make it look less unprofessional and gathered a briefcase on the off chance that they'd actually get to discussing work. Lunch dates between the two were notorious not necessarily for disagreements alone, but also for the idle talk that took place between eating and actual work-talk.

He arrived fifteen minutes early, and to his surprise Francis was already there as well, so the two simply took their seats at the table, the atmosphere relaxing instantly, if not for the odd way Francis was eyeing the tables surrounding them.

"How've you been?" Alfred started, picking up a menu and looking at Francis over the top of it, trying to assume that the odd look in the other's eye was nothing more than a trick of the light. "No major riots, right?"

Francis offered a coy smile, shrugging sharp shoulders. "I've been well, but as I'm sure you know, busy. There's no Revolution in my home right now, but that doesn't mean all of my people are happy." Not even bothering to look at his menu, he simply crossed one slender leg over the other.

Trying not to feel a little jealous of how effortlessly thin Francis always seemed to be, Alfred couldn't help but feel that there was something off about all this, though he couldn't yet pin what was wrong.

"That's good," the American replied, nodding slowly at him. "How's the fashion industry doing? I know that's sort of your thing, what with all of the talented designers at your place."

To his surprise, Francis actually stiffened, just a little, lips pursing and eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. "They are doing quite well, as are their models," he replied, tone dry and more serious than Alfred could recall hearing from him in a long while. "Why do you ask, pray tell?"

Alfred blinked at him, clearly confused at the hostility. "Nothing, I was just asking. You look nice, you always do. It's hard not to notice how effortlessly… fashionable you are," he concluded, just barely managing to keep himself from saying 'thin', despite how prevalent that word was in his thoughts.

Before Francis could reply, a waitress came by and took their orders, Alfred ordering a conveniently normal-sized meal, neither too small nor too large to draw concern of either sort—and he had this down to a t, knowing precisely how to play the 'eating at restaurants' game. However, Francis looked as if he could use a pointer or two on looking normal, because when the waitress turned to him, he paled then flushed pink, looking curiously embarrassed before finally just ordering the smallest salad on the menu.

Alfred's concern, safe to say, no longer felt unwarranted.

Mind no longer much on the conversation nor the work they were supposed to be discussing, Alfred found himself sneaking glances at Francis, doing his best to piece together a few basic pieces of information from both demeanor and how anxious he appeared around food—that, adding to how irritated he'd gotten when Alfred even alluded to the controversial Parisian models, led him to wonder if perhaps he and Francis were more alike than he'd previously thought.

"So, Alfred," Francis finally ventured, clearly trying to break the silence that had fallen in the wake of the waitress's exit, "How have you been? Healthy, I assume?"

Alfred startled, clearly surprised at the question. "I've been good, yeah," he agreed, wincing slightly at the word 'healthy' and wondering for a moment if that was possibly a jab to his current physique. "The economy's had an upswing recently, so I guess I'm doing pretty well. How about you?"

Francis simply shrugged once more, waving off the question. "My economy is not doing very well, no. But it does me good to hear that others aren't having as hard of a time as I."

Seeing through the double-meaning, Alfred frowned a bit more obviously, though played dumb, not wanting to cause a conflict. "Of course. Europe's not doing so well, huh?"

"No, our finances all seem to be drained. It is a shame, really," the Frenchman replied, paying no mind to Alfred, instead just picking at his nails.

A waitress came just minutes later, delivering the food, and Alfred felt as if he'd ordered about two times too much in comparison to Francis. However, he recognized very quickly that it was he, for once, who had the healthy amount, and Francis who wasn't.

"You alright?" Alfred asked, unable to stop himself.

Francis stiffened, glancing irritably away. "My economy has not been so good. I'm not very hungry," he protested. "Anything else you want to ask? Perhaps something else rude?"

Alfred frowned, trying not to take offense. He knew this tactic well, after all. If he insulted others enough, they would eventually get annoyed and stop paying such close attention to him. However, he'd learned over the years that it didn't always work. Because when someone really, honestly cared, they knew to see through the insults. Arthur was one of those people. For all the fighting they did, the other nation cared quite a bit about him, and he was second only to Matthew to see through his oddly antisocial behavior. Of course, Alfred was still fairly sure neither of them knew that he had an eating disorder—or, rather, an unhealthy relationship with food, because Alfred didn't quite conform to any of the usual disorders—but either way, it was nice to know that someone cared.

But, he wondered, did Francis know that others cared about him? Did he know that he was seriously worrying Alfred, right here, right now, simply because of how thin he was and how little he was eating? Did he know that he was capable of being worrisome?

As much as he wished it weren't so, Alfred had a pretty firm guess that the answer was no.

But what was he supposed to say? 'I happened to notice that you're super-thin and you're not eating much, as well as displaying several signs that I recognize from personal experience to be antisocial in an attempt to push everyone away, so I can't help but ask, do you have an eating disorder?' Right, that would probably make Francis either panic or get angry, and he didn't want to risk either of those.

After a moment's hesitation, Alfred was fairly sure he knew what to do. It would involve a lot of sneaking around, and he could never tell Francis that it was him, but… He'd do it, somehow. For Francis. Because no one deserved to feel so badly about themselves that they should go to such lengths-and however hypocritical that sounded, Alfred knew he had to do _something_.

The rest of the lunch date passed uneventfully, with some chatter and some talk of work, but nothing really got accomplished and both vowed to get more done at the next official World Meeting. However, before they went their separate ways, Alfred gently put a hand on Francis's shoulder, stopping him.

"It was really good seeing you, Francis," he said with a smile, hoping the other would understand. "We really should talk more often. It's great that you have such an awesome taste for things, like fashion and literature and movies and stuff. Mind coming over every now and again so we can just hang out?"

For what must have been the third time that afternoon, Francis startled, though this time it was a rather pleasantly surprised one. He turned to look at him, confused for just a moment before saying, "I'd like that. I'm afraid I've been busy recently, but… It would be good to see you more often, old friend. Thank you for offering."

"Anytime," Alfred insisted, giving his shoulder a light squeeze before heading to the door, hoping against hope that he'd managed to spark some form of hope in the other.

* * *

Over the next week or so, Alfred spent hours upon hours writing little messages along with longer ones that probably classified more as letters. All were addressed to Francis, of course, but none had anything to mark who was sending them. It was exactly as he wanted, given that he'd talked about his own body and eating issues in many of the messages. Not all of the messages included that topic, of course; many were simply meant to remind him of how strong he was.

A few examples were,

_Don't let anyone tell you that you're not good enough. Your history is amazing, Francis. The fact that you're still here after so long is incredible, but the fact that you've had so many political systems, that you've been willing to go through incredible stress to help your people over and over again, is absolutely amazing. Few nations have had as tumultuous pasts as you have, and you're so strong to have faced so much and gotten out of it alive. _

And,

_I know that nations aren't exactly supposed to be kind, but you are. I can't count the times that you've cut in before someone could do something stupid. Aside from just that, though, of all the nations, you're one of the most dependable, especially for matters of love. I trust you with things like that, totally and completely. Never give up on love—even if it's self-love. You of all people, the master of such topics, should know that you can't love others near as well if you don't love yourself, right? _

And,

_You're beautiful, and you always have been. Please don't try to punish yourself anymore. Other nations love you. And I know, I know, that if you talked to a nation close to you, like Antonio or Gilbert, or even Arthur (because you and I both know that he cares about you) or Matthew or Alfred, even Ludwig. Whoever you feel you can trust. _

And,

_Please try eating today. A cucumber sandwich on whole-wheat-flat-bread has just a few calories, just enough to keep your body working well. It won't turn into fat, Francis. I know you know the science behind it._

And more in-depth,

_You're not the only nation that struggles with this sort of thing. Hopefully some of my other messages about eating right won't sound hypocritical, but, Francis… Part of why I want to help you is because I struggle with eating issues, too. You're not alone in this, remember. I know how it feels to hate yourself for giving in and eating, all the while knowing that it's wrong to starve yourself. I'm doing better now, but I'm not going to pretend that I'm completely better yet. I have a problem with shifting in-between extremes. Either I'm hurting myself by not eating enough and exercising too much, or I'm hurting myself by overeating and hating myself even more when I look in the mirror the next morning, and I know that I'm going to end up overdoing it on an exercise machine, and I know that I probably won't end up eating more than a few crackers and a little bit of protein. I have a problem. I know that. And I'd love to talk to you face to face about this sometime. But I need to make sure you're healthy first. Please. _

Those were just a few of the many Alfred sent out, some by mail, some by an untraceable email source. The emails never got a reply, though, and of course the letters didn't, so he was getting more and more anxious about the next meeting. There, he'd be able to see if his messages had gotten through to Francis at all, and if Francis had started to recover at all.

* * *

_Note: This fanfiction is reposted from the Hetalia Kink Meme, with errors cleaned up. I will also be combining two chapters, meaning that this will only have four instead of the original 8._


End file.
